


Late Nights and Impossible Odds

by Ammeh



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ammeh/pseuds/Ammeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders wanders around the Fade and discovers that everyone is having sex dreams about him.</p><p>He doesn't exactly mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dragon Age Kink Meme (for this prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/7619.html?thread=30323907#t30323907) Some lovely anon was kind enough to offer me an invite so I could post it here. 
> 
> While this involves a lot of different pairings, the dreams are almost stand-alone. I've broken them into chapters so people who are pickier than I about their Anders pairings can easily find their favorites. =)

After the first six months as a Grey Warden, Anders had a way of dealing with the nightmares.  Walking through the dreams of others, consciously, allowed him to escape his own.  It wasn’t as restful as letting go and allowing the Fade to take its course, but then, neither were broodmothers.

It was always a gamble. He couldn’t control where he went when he stepped between dreams, but there was a definite tendency to be drawn towards the dreams of people he knew.  That could get awkward (he really hadn’t needed to know that about Yuriah), and occasionally just meant he ended up watching Nathaniel’s Grey Warden nightmares instead of his own.  On top of that, there was also a draw towards anyone who was dreaming about him—that, or some of his patients dreamt about him a _lot._

Perhaps because of the personal connection, he didn’t do it often.  It seemed rather invasive (okay, it _was_ rather invasive), and he was always worried he’d see something that crossed the line from awkward to I-can-never-look-this-person-in-the-face-again.   Sometimes, however, his voyeuristic curiosity won out.  And today had been a trying day.  On the way back from a too-long trip to the Wounded Coast, Fenris had sliced open one of those 10-foot spiders _right on top of him_.  Granted, he’d been that close because it was trying to _eat_ him, so he maybe didn’t blame Fenris entirely, but the important part was that he’d discovered there were quantities of spider guts that the self-cleaning enchantments on his robes simply couldn’t handle.  He’d had to walk back to Kirkwall in some outfit Hawke had scavenged from a crate in a bandit camp. They’d apparently been raiding clothing shipments, so it was good quality—but _Antivan_ clothing shipments, so the clothes were…designed for warmer climates.  And Antivans.  (Really, the climate difference could excuse the parchment-thin cotton of the shirt, and if he were generous could even account for the fact that it only buttoned to mid-chest.  However, while he’d admittedly never ventured anywhere warmer than the Free Marches he could conceive of no reason why _skintight suede pants_ would help one bear the heat _._ )

His tiny washtub in Darktown was hardly up to the magnitude of spider fluids, so Hawke had let him leave the robe with Bodahn, who’d discovered the cleaning enchantments had actually managed to _blow out_ somehow, and he’d have to have the robes re-enchanted in addition to being cleaned.  (Just to spite him, the Antivan suede pants had perfectly serviceable cleaning enchantments.  They were so impractical that they required an enchantment normally restricted to combat gear and finery for clumsy nobles.)  Darktown was mercifully free of major injuries, which left him with no excuse not to go to Wicked Grace night at the Hanged Man.  Without changing, because he’d once again given away his last spare outfit to a patient who’d come in bleeding all over their only set of clothes.  And it had to be one of the blue moons where _Sebastian_ came, which meant he lost even more coin than usual.  (The man played like a seasoned cardshark and then headed home at 10 on the nose to dump his winnings in the Chantry offertory.  It was simply unfair.)  And everyone kept _staring_ at him all evening.  Like he didn’t know that his shirt was open halfway down his chest.  He’d _explained_ about the spider guts and the faulty enchantments and the bandits with questionable taste, but he still got side-glances all night.  He knew damn well he wasn’t good enough at cards that people had to watch him for tells, so he supposed he must just look _that_ ridiculous.  Fucking suede pants.

So anyway, tonight was a night where he didn’t feel nearly enough guilt at the thought of semi-accidently stumbling across one of his companions’ embarrassing little secrets.  Whatever the Fade had in store for _him_ , he doubted it would be restful.  He turned and walked off into the mist before his own dreamscape had fully materialized, leaving a very put-out demon of some variety calling after him with the voice of the Warden Commander.


	2. Hawke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's gender is never mentioned, because I wanted to see if I could manage it. (I think I did, but this did come out way shorter than subsequent dreams due to that limitation.) You can read this as F!Hawke, M!Hawke, or even genderqueer!Hawke--take your pick.

He found himself in Hawke’s bedroom, so obviously his first guess was Hawke.  The guess was rather firmly supported by the fact that Hawke was standing at the bedroom door talking to someone, and didn’t look quite wispy enough to be a Fade projection.

“—not at all,” Hawke was saying.  “It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” came the voice on the other side of the door—with a jolt Anders recognized it as his own.  “I’d really prefer not to spend a moment longer in these things than is strictly necessary.”

Anders vaguely recalled saying something like that while explaining the sordid clothing situation that evening, and groaned under his breath as his dream-self walked into the room in those fucking Antivan pants.  Apparently there was no escape.  Though admittedly he did look better in them than he’d given himself credit for…

Hawke smiled with a wickedness normally reserved for the prospect of hoodwinking high-ranking Templar.  “Oh?  Let me help you with that.” 

That was apparently intended _exactly_ as it sounded, as Hawke stepped forward and unbuttoned the pants before sliding both hands down the back.  Dream-Anders stammered a token “Oh no, I can take care of them myself” which was quickly silenced by a tongue being shoved into his mouth. 

Anders gaped as Hawke broke the kiss only to start peeling the pants—and peeling was really the only word that could be used to describe their removal—down his dream-self’s legs.  This was unexpected, to say the least…though certainly not unwelcome.  Hawke (like most of the people Anders found himself around these days) was very attractive.  Terrifyingly competent.  Crazy, but in a charming way.   And about to give his dream-self a blowjob.  Holy _crap._

The pants on the floor around his dream-self’s ankles, Hawke leaned forward to place little kisses up the length of his cock.  He groaned and the kisses turned to teasing licks, just a bit too brief to provide real satisfaction. 

“Hawke, _please_ ,” his dream-self gasped, and with a low chuckle Hawke’s mouth opened to take him in, hands grabbing at his ass to pull him forward.  Anders flushed as he watched their fearless leader’s head bobbing up and down on his counterpart’s cock.  He should really leave.  He’d had no evidence that people could see him when he did this, but if Hawke _did_ look over at the wall and Anders was actually visible, he wasn’t entirely certain Hawke would buy that he was part of the dream, being a mage and all.

Wait, Hawke was a _mage_.  This was _conscious_ dreaming.  Hawke consciously dreamt about sucking him off.  He let that process in the back of his mind as he watched his dream-self bend forward with a moan, hands tangling in dark hair as he came. 

It was a _little_ disconcerting, he concluded. But mostly hot.

He stepped backwards past the hazy edges of the room before Hawke could look up, and found himself being pulled into another dream.


	3. Isabela

He ended up on the deck of a ship at sea.  He recognized Isabela immediately, a small group of sailors gathered behind her as she addressed…the mast? 

“You’d better have a good reason for stowing away on this ship,” she was saying.  “We don’t take this kind of thing lightly.”  One of the sailors behind her shifted, and he saw that she was addressing not the mast, but someone tied to it.

The sailor shifted a bit further, and Anders realized that someone was him.

The pants were not making a reappearance, thank the Maker, but she’d imagined him in some very scanty Tevinter robes…which would have been more reprehensible had he not owned a very similar set a few years ago.  (About the time he’d been through Denerim, actually, so maybe that was where she was getting them.) 

“I’m a starving urchin looking for a better life?” his dream-self offered, widening his eyes innocently.  “And, uh, my long-lost mother lives…wherever it is you’re going?” 

Anders snorted under his breath.  Isabela’s subconscious apparently remembered his past self in much greater detail than her waking mind.

She kept staring at his dream-self expectantly. 

“Okay, um…I’m a convert of the Qun fleeing persecution at the hands of the Chantry?  And you looked like you might be going to Rivain?”

She clucked her tongue.  “I’d say ‘nice try,’ but I hate to lie so transparently.”  Without breaking eye contact, she pulled one of the daggers off her back and twirled it back and forth in her hand.  “Why are you on my ship.”

He sighed.  “…I’m running away from home.”

“You look rather _adult_ for someone who’s running away from home.”

“Yes, well, they’re very overprotective.”

“Mm-hmm.”  Her eyebrows went up.  “And I’m guessing ‘they’ are Templar and the bit about fleeing the Chantry from your last story was actually true?”

He pouted. “…It’s the robes, isn’t it.”

“You’re trying to _burn through the rope_ ,” she pointed out.  “Put that out, by the way; you’re as dead as we are if the ship catches fire.”

As he acquiesced, she turned to the sailors behind her, who were beginning to whisper amongst themselves.  “All right, you lot.  I can handle this, now _back to work with all of you_.”  They complied with a few grumbles, some of them fading into nonexistence as they lost relevance to the dream and the others taking up various work-y looking activities in the background.  (Anders didn’t know much about how a ship functioned.) 

Dream-Anders straightened up as much as one could straighten while tied to a large pole.  “So I don’t suppose you could be convinced to drop a poor apostate off at the next port instead of marooning him?”

Isabela laughed.  “You assume that we bother to _maroon_ our stowaways.  Much easier to throw you overboard than to go find an island, you know.” 

“You’re bluffing.”

“You _hope_ I’m bluffing.  There’s a difference.”  She sheathed the dagger she was holding.  “Lucky guess, in this case.  But really.  We don’t plan to make land for weeks.  Everything’s been planned out—rations, labor, bunks.”  She gestured around her to the various sailors.  “Everyone on board this ship is contributing something.  What can you offer?”

_Healing_ , Anders supplied in his head, because he was quite sure that was what both his past and present self would say in that scenario.

His dream-self, however, smiled disarmingly.  “I’m pretty?  And I can do this thing with electricity…”

On the other hand, she was apparently drawing this entire scenario from the handful of encounters they’d had in the Pearl years ago.

“I’m listening,” she said.  “But maybe we could discuss this in my cabin.”  She pulled a dagger out of her boot and cut the ropes, leading him to the captain’s cabin. 

Anders was sure he knew where this was going.  And he was a bit perturbed that his first instinct was to follow and see if he was right. 

He didn’t have to--as Isabela reached the door the scenery warped, and rather than stepping inside, the section of the Fade that had formerly been the deck warped to become the interior of the cabin.  It was much less decadent than Anders had expected—though admittedly the entirety of his knowledge on these matters came from Varric’s pirate serial.  There was a pile of furs on the bed, but no sign of the silver candelabras and velvet brocade he’d been expecting.  

“So,” Isabela said, putting a hand on her hip.  “Show me why I should keep you around.”  She pulled the daggers off her back and set them on the table.  “I should warn you, by the way, that if you try to kill me, some of my crew members won’t take it lying down,” she said conversationally.  “And while you may be capable of killing them, I don’t think much of your chances of making it back to shore afterwards.”

“Just some?” Dream-Anders asked, as Isabela pulled off her tunic and started to unfasten the reinforced corset underneath.

She laughed.  “We’re _pirates_ , sweet thing.  There’s always someone who’d like to stab you in the back.  The trick is to identify the ones who are stupid enough to actually _try_ it, and make sure you get them first.”  Her corset came undone and she tossed it to the floor, followed by the thin cloth smalls she was wearing underneath. 

And Anders felt a little guilty about it, but you couldn’t really be in the same room as Isabela naked and _not_ stare.  

She didn’t bother removing her boots, instead pushing his dream-self back onto the bed and swinging a leg over to kneel astride his chest.  He stroked his palms up the backs of her legs, smooth leather to hot flesh as he leaned up to bite at her inner thigh.  She hummed in approval, kneading her own breasts, and he flashed her a smirk before pulling her down to straddle his face. 

She reached down to spread herself open for him, her other hand carding through his fair fondly. “ _Mmm_. Good boy.” 

Anders watched himself bury his face in Isabela’s crotch, hands cupping her ass to hold her in place.  The dream filled with soft wet slick sounds of him eating her out, punctuated by groans and gasps and the occasional creak of her leather boots.

In the last dream he’d been a little too shocked to register, but now he was really starting to feel like a voyeur.  _This **is** basically the definition of voyeurism_ , his brain helpfully pointed out.  The fact that he was watching _himself_ somehow made it more acceptable and more wrong at the same time.  It was perturbing… and mesmerizing… and depraved… and _really hot_. 

He made no move to leave.  Somehow he didn’t think Isabela would mind.

Isabela arched her back, pushing down against his dream-self with a long moan.  He drew away for a moment, plunging two fingers inside her and curving them up to press hard against that spot that was mentioned in none of the medical books—she cursed and wailed, grabbing hard at his hair as her thighs spasmed. (Admittedly Anders couldn’t actually see what his dream-self was doing with his fingers, but he recognized the wail at least.) 

Dream-Anders pulled her back down when she untensed, mouth going back to work between her thighs, circling a fingertip covered in her slick around her asshole before pressing it inside.  She groaned, removing her hand from his hair to pinch at her own nipples. He worked his finger in and out of her ass as he brought her to a peak again, her hair sticking to her temples.  She pushed herself up on slightly shaky knees with a satisfied purr, grabbing a bottle from the nightstand and tossing him a cloth to wipe off his glistening face.

“Not bad,” she said.  “But I believe you mentioned something about _electricity.”_

She undid the buckles holding his robe together and pulled it open—Anders wasn’t particularly surprised to see that his dream-self wasn’t wearing smalls underneath, his cock flushed and heavy against his stomach.  She uncorked the bottle she’d grabbed and poured some liquid into her palm, pausing a moment to let it warm before reaching down and wrapping her hand around his prick, fisting it slowly and leaving him gleaming.  He groaned low in his throat, cock twitching in her palm.

“I don’t generally pack contraceptive herbs on sea voyages,” she said with a wicked smirk.  “So we’ll have to proceed…non-traditionally.”

She straddled him, nestling the tip of his cock between the cheeks of her rear and bearing down slowly.  Anders watched his dream-self’s prick slowly disappear into Isabela’s ass, watched her rake her nails down his chest when her cheeks were finally flush with his groin.   

“Well?” she said expectantly, rolling her hips.

Dream-Anders placed his palms just above the curve of her hips, his hands erupting with thin fingers of pale light.  Sparks danced across her skin and she threw her head back in a deep moan, pulling her hand off his chest to rub her clit.  He released the spell, guiding her up and down for a moment before cupping one of her bouncing tits in each hand, flicking his thumbs over the hard pebbles of her nipples. She rocked back onto him, her boots creaking with each flex of her thighs as she rode him. 

His hands lit up again, tendrils of lightening crackling over her chest and spreading downwards.  She gasped, pressing hard against her hand, legs spasming as she thrust down on him.  She bounced up and down a few more times before he moaned loudly, arching his hips up off the bed to bury himself as deeply as possible in her ass.  The spell finally flickered out as he came, but she hummed pleasantly as if her skin were still a-tingle (which it probably would have been; Anders hadn’t used that spell in years but he remembered the effects vividly.)

Isabela gave a satisfied sigh, still sitting atop him.  Their forms and the room were beginning to become blurry and indistinct, a sure sign that the dream was ending.  Anders stepped forward into the haze, adjusting his pants even as he chuckled to himself at the craziness of it.  What were the odds of two people having sex dreams about him on the same night? 


	4. Fenris

The room he found himself in was opulent, but somehow sinister, twisted—the shadows too dark, the edges of the furniture sharp and menacing.  Even the sky outside the wide window was hazy and red.  Under the heavy scent of incense in the air was a faint hint of stale blood. 

Well.  Not looking like another sex dream, then.  (Anders mentally scolded his cock for being somewhat disappointed at this turn of events.)

As Anders examined the room, it became evident that it had to be somewhere foreign.  The threatening air it had seemed more like a dream-construction than a memory, but the low couches and intricate metal grate over the glassless window were like nothing he’d seen in Fereldan or the Free Marches.  The lamps, he realized suddenly, were lit with magic rather than flame, which he’d never seen done outside of a Circle.

Then he spotted Fenris pacing back and forth in the opposite corner, and suddenly everything made a lot more sense.  _Tevinter_.

The door creaked open, and Fenris whirled around.  The man who walked into the room was clearly a magister— _wait_ , fuck, no, that was him again.  Like in Isabela’s dream he was wearing Tevinter robes, but these were far from a sex object—while cut off mid-thigh at the sides as befitted the climate, they were clearly designed to be imposing rather than alluring.  He’d _liked_ the golden claw ornaments that had decorated the sleeves of the Tevinter-style robe he’d owned as a Warden, but on this one they seemed too harsh and pointed, ominous instead of exotic.

Fenris snorted.  “You’ve taken to it quickly, _”_ he said, and _crap_ he was dreaming in Tevene.  While any decent Circle education included knowledge of the language, it focused largely on the older forms that were required to study most magical tomes—there certainly hadn’t been a _conversational_ piece.  Anders hoped he’d be able to follow.

Dream-Anders frowned.  “I just wanted freedom,” he replied.  (Anders was quite sure his accent was nowhere near that good in reality. He wondered what had prompted this dream—presumably the brief conversation they’d had about Tevinter the other day?  The elf didn’t actually think he was considering running off to try to become a magister, did he?) 

“And you don’t care what you have to do to get there?  Typical mage _,_ ” Fenris snarled, stalking forward. 

Anders’ dream-self launched into a loud diatribe, speaking too quickly for Anders to follow, but the words ‘mage’ and ‘freedom’ and ‘justice’ came up several times.  Fenris started yelling over him—Anders couldn’t make out much but ‘magic’ and ‘tainted.’    

Suddenly Fenris lunged forward and slammed him against the wall, and Anders winced—he had no desire to see himself get mauled.  He was about to step out of the dream when— _oh_. 

Apparently Fenris’ version of shutting someone up involved a lot of tongue. 

Fenris had his dream-self pinned to the wall, one hand trapping his wrists above his head and the other yanking his collar down to kiss him violently.  Anders gaped.  If their arguments normally went like _that,_ he wouldn’t mind the elf nearly so much.

“You have _no idea_ what you’re getting into,” Fenris growled, breaking away.  “You _idiot.”_ He released dream-Anders’ wrists to grab the front of the robes with both hands and _rip,_ his gauntlets tearing through the fabric like wet cotton.  Buckles and buttons went flying, clinking against the floor all over the room.  The torn fabric fell open loosely, exposing the thin pink scratches that the gauntlets had left behind.  Fenris grabbed his wrists again, pushing him back against the wall with his body to bite at his neck. 

 _Holy shit_.  While it did seem to be “everybody has sex dreams about Anders” night, he would have thought the elf was the type to silently seethe rather than the sort who channeled his frustration into sexier outlets.  Well, maybe his frustration about _Hawke_ , but Anders hadn’t realized that he personally fell under I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off annoying rather than I-want-to-rip-your-heart-out annoying.  He felt unreasonably smug at the revelation.

Dream-Anders moaned softly, face flushed.  His fingers flexed uselessly at the air, head tilting back to give Fenris better access.  Fenris pressed their bodies closer together, sliding a thigh between his legs and grinding against him without stopping his assault on Anders’ neck.  His free hand yanked at what remained of Anders’ robes, shredding them further. 

He tore a long strip of cloth off the skirt and spun dream-Anders around, releasing his hands only to bind them behind his back with the cloth.  The torn remains of the robes fell in pieces around Anders’ ankles. 

“Fenris, _please,”_ he gasped.

“On your knees,” Fenris growled. 

Dream-Anders obliged, staring up with a look of vulnerable anticipation.  Anders was no stranger to this sort of scenario—he'd participated in more than his fair share of dirty roleplaying games—but it should _not_ have been this hot to watch himself get pushed around. And by someone he legitimately found a bit terrifying at times—or maybe that was part of the appeal?

Fenris unbuckled his gauntlets and tossed them aside, unfastening his pants to free his cock.  (And _Maker_ , he’d always joked that the elf had to be compensating for something with that sword, but he had apparently been utterly mistaken.)

“Suck it.”

Anders watched his dream-self lean forward, licking up the length of Fenris’ thick, lyrium-lined cock before taking the head into his mouth.  Fenris let out a heavy breath, resting his hand on Anders’ shoulder. Anders’ cheeks hollowed as he sucked, but without the use of his hands his ministrations were somewhat clumsy.  After a minute Fenris grabbed the back of his head with a frustrated grunt and began to thrust instead, a trickle of saliva running down the corner of Anders’ mouth as Fenris fucked his face, cock sliding wet and heavy between his swollen lips. 

“So tell me,” he sneered, “have you changed your stance on blood magic?  The lives of innocents suddenly didn’t seem so important next to power and riches?”

Dream-Anders made a muffled noise of protest—his head shook almost imperceptibly, the best he could do with a cock shoved down his throat.  (Anders wondered if the lyrium tasted like anything—wait, no, he ought to be finding this unsettling.  It should be unsettling and appalling and… uh… _wrong_ and……this would be a lot easier if he weren’t such a kinky little pervert.  And if Fenris weren’t so damned attractive.)

“ _Che_ ,” Fenris muttered, jerking Anders’ head off his cock and tilting it up to face him.  “ _Well?_ ”

“ _No,_ you –” (Anders was unfamiliar with the insult that followed.)  “I’m better than that.”

Fenris gave a short bark of laughter.  “You sorry fool.”  He walked over to a dresser covered in a variety of bottles—potions or cosmetics—and picked up a phial, carved from smooth stone with a flared top and decorative stopper.  “Get up.” 

Anders watched as Fenris directed his dream-self to kneel on one of the low couches, knees spread wide and hands still bound behind him, his chest and shoulders pressing against the silky fabric.  His cock was straining between his legs, a pearl of fluid falling from the tip to land on the cushion below, but the position he was in afforded him no method of relief.

Fenris unstoppered the bottle and tilted it until a rivulet of oil poured over the wide lip—he caught it only to smear it onto the base.   “If your goal as a magister is to be the _better person_ , then that will be _all_ you are.” He replaced the stopper in the bottle and pressed the narrow base against Anders’ ass, pushing it slowly inside until the flared lip was all that was visible. “Paying your slaves will be seen as a sign of softness.  Refusal to use blood magic will be seen as a weakness to exploit.  You’ll be no freer than you were in Kirkwall.  You’ll only be _alive_ because no one will see you as enough of a threat to bother with.”  He pulled the phial out only to thrust it back in, drawing a soft cry from his clearly-rather-willing victim. 

“ _This_ will be your place in this society.  Vulnerable, bound—” he tugged at the cloth around Anders’ wrists for emphasis, still grinding the phial in and out with his other hand “— and forever at the mercy of those with more power than you.  Every boon, every _pleasure_ in your life—” he wrapped his hand around Ander’s cock and began to stroke “—is at the whim of another—one of those you’re ‘better than.’  The only thing keeping you above a slave is the fact that you _always have a_ _choice_.”

Dream-Anders whimpered, pushing back against Fenris’ hands, his face flushed.  “Nn—I want—“

“Freedom?  I thought we’d discussed that.  You’re delusional if you think you’ll find it here at a price you’re willing to pay.”

Anders watched his dream-self twist his head in an unsuccessful attempt to glare over his shoulder (even if he’d been able to manage the proper angle, his expression itself was only 10% glare and 90% “dazed and aroused”), only to drop back down with a moan as Fenris rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock. 

“I want you to fuck me,” he choked out.

Fenris yanked the phial out, tossing the stopper to the floor and upending it over his cock, unmindful of the oil dripping down to ruin the silk cushions.  He grasped his cock and rubbed the head slowly back and forth over Anders’ hole.  “In Tevinter, people like you don’t get anything unless they _beg_ ,” he rumbled, with a teasing thrust forward, too shallow to actually penetrate.

Anders watched himself debate for a moment before hanging his head, pride apparently losing out.  (Probably a fairly accurate prediction, but Anders liked to think he'd have been able to hold out for at least another 10 seconds.)  “I—Fuck me.  _Please_.  Use me, shove your cock in my ass and pound me like a Lowtown whore, just _please,_ put it in!”

“You’ll have to beg more prettily if you ever hope to win a favor from a magister,” Fenris said, grabbing Anders’ hips and bucking forward, impaling him halfway on his thick length in a single stroke.  “Fortunately for you, I am no magister.”  He spread Anders’ cheeks with his thumbs, watching himself sink the rest of the way into Anders' ass. The moment he was fully buried he set a brutal pace, yanking Anders’ hips back to meet him with each thrust. 

(Anders had never actually been in the position to observe the movements of an ass that muscular while its owner was busy fucking someone senseless.  Judging from the view, this had been a dire oversight on his part.)   

“Now,” Fenris said, voice calm over the sound of his balls slapping against Anders’ ass, “will you give up this farce?”

“Ugh— _yes!”_ Anders screamed, pitching forward with the force of his thrusts.

“Swear it.  Swear you’ll leave Tevinter and return to Kirkwall.”

“I—ah!—I swear I’ll— _nn_ —return to Kirkwall!” he gasped, suddenly back to the common tongue.

 _Huh_.  Anders would have thought Fenris’ fantasy would involve him turning himself into the Circle or leaving to rejoin the Wardens or something.  Apparently the elf really didn’t hate him as much as he let on.  (Or maybe he was a masochist…though at the moment that was looking highly unlikely.)  He filed the thought away for future contemplation at a later, less turned-on time.

“Good boy,” Fenris purred, reaching down to stroke his dream-self’s cock.

(Anders was pretty sure he was in fact older than Fenris.  For some reason that just made it hotter.)

His dream-self practically _mewled_ , rocking back against the elf, breath coming in panting little gasps.  Soon he was coming all over the silk cushions with a loud moan, thighs trembling with the effort of continuing to hold himself up. 

Fenris grabbed his hips again to drive in hard for the last few stokes, throwing his head back with a groan as he emptied his balls into Anders’ ass.

Anders stood there for a moment gaping before the scene abruptly disappeared, indicating Fenris had suddenly awoken.  _I wonder if he’s going to wank,_ Anders mused absently.  _Wait, no, bad Anders. These are not the kinds of thoughts you should start having._   Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he stepped forward into the empty mist. 


	5. Varric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bullshit explanation for why Anders can see Varric's dream--After going to the Fade for Night Terrors, Varric was left with enough of a connection to it that it projects a mirror of his dreams, even though said dreams are not actually taking place in the Fade.

The fog cleared and Anders found himself standing in Varric’s suite at the Hanged Man.  (He had no idea _why_ the Fade had decided to start projecting Varric’s dreams.  It was weird like that.)  And it just had to be Varric’s dream—the suite had too many small details to be someone else’s remembrance, though the long table was a foot or two higher than Anders remembered, and inexplicably covered in a deep red tablecloth. 

Good old Varric.  _Varric_ would certainly never have a sex dream about him, so maybe now the night would return to some sense of normalcy.  (Again, he found himself mentally quashing a nagging sense of disappointment at this thought.)  

And indeed, Varric was seated at the head of the long table, in the midst of weaving an epic tale to a group of enraptured onlookers with no Anders in sight. 

…It was kind of strange that he wasn’t there, actually.  Everyone else who regularly came to their card nights in Varric’s suite was accounted for, and there were even a couple random regulars of the Hanged Man loitering conspicuously outside the door.

“—fifty feet tall, with fangs the size of longswords—”

 (Also kind of strange that Varric was telling one of his exaggerated-Hawke-tales to their group of companions rather than a gathering of sloshed patrons.  He usually reserved that level of hyperbolae for the thoroughly inebriated.)

 “—the fireball missed by only a few yards, leaving a crater of molten glass—“ Varric continued.

Anders had been present for the incident Varric was describing.  The dragon had been 15 feet at most, and had left little more than a few scorched plants.

He started to wander around the edge of the table, letting Varric’s voice wash over him and ignoring the details of the story.  The dwarf had a damned nice voice—and unlike other unnamed parties with damned nice voices, he generally used said voice to say things that made Anders amused rather than annoyed. 

(And fuck, that train of thought was making him recall the events of the evening all over again, just when he was starting to calm down a little.  Being aroused in the Fade was exquisitely frustrating—besides the fact that it seemed like poor etiquette to whip it out and start wanking all over someone’s dream, it was also likely to attract desire demons.  Some of the stupider ones liked to try to convince you they were part of a fantasy you’d conjured up, even though any mage with a lick of sense could tell the difference between a dream-construct and a demon.)

“—lashed out, uprooting a tree with her tail—”

(…Incidentally, Varric’s voice wasn’t helping with the desire to wank.)

 Anders made it down to Varric’s end of the table, where the inexplicable tablecloth abruptly ended right at the edge rather than draping down in front of his lap.  He turned the corner to stand behind the dwarf and a flash of movement caught his eye.

_Oh._

Apparently the tablecloth was completely explicable.

And apparently his assumption that Varric would never have a sex dream about him had been wholly mistaken.

Shielded by just a few scant inches of fabric hanging over the edge, Anders saw himself kneeling under the table, smirking up at Varric, his palms slowly creeping up the dwarf’s thighs.  (Hawke and Isabela, seated on Varric’s either side, were several feet back from the head of the table with their chairs pulled out slightly to face Varric, so they were in no immediate danger of accidentally kicking him.  Varric himself had his chair pulled close to the table, so Anders was fairly well hidden…unless, you know, someone stood up.)

Without looking down or pausing in his story, Varric spread his thighs further apart, mock-absently reaching down to tuck the trailing end of his tunic up into his sash.  Anders watched himself palm the bulge in the dwarf’s trousers, teasing it to greater hardness.  He exhaled slowly over the fabric, bending forward to nuzzle the contour of Varric’s cock.

“—Hawke shot a burst of ice across the battlefield, freezing it in its tracks just long enough for—”

Anders had a brief thought about how odd it was to hear Varric describing Hawke as a mage—normally story-Hawke was a master of the ranseur—but promptly lost track of it at the sight of his dream-self unbuttoning Varric’s pants.  A dense trail of tawny hair lead down into the dwarf’s smalls, the outline of his cock pressing thick and solid against the fabric.  Dream-Anders trailed his fingers slowly through the narrow patch of uncovered hair, grinning as he hooked his thumbs in the hem of Varric’s smalls and tugged them slowly down over his cock, which sprung free only to be pulled back against his body by the waistband when Anders let go. 

“—blade scraping against scales like diamond—”

Varric gestured broadly with one arm, the other hand quickly and subtly grabbing a knife from his belt and slicing through the fabric of his smalls with a flick of his wrist.  He sheathed the knife without missing a beat, cock bobbing free of the slashed cloth.  Anders’ dream-self tugged it open further, coaxing the fabric down until his balls draped out of the gap in his trousers. 

“—roared as the membrane of her wing was riven by a bolt of pure energy—”

Dream-Anders wrapped his fingers around the fat length of Varric’s cock, smearing a clear drop of precome over the head with his thumb.  He squeezed gently before sliding his hand down to wrap around the base, holding the wide length secure as he leaned forward carefully to give it a long, slow lick from base to head.  He swirled his tongue over the head before trailing his lips back down, mouthing at the hot flesh in quiet flutters of his lips that clearly yearned to be loud, passionate smacks. 

Varric continued his story, strikingly composed—his voice even, face relaxed but for a small smirk playing at the corner of his lip.  (Anders didn’t know _why_ he would find the ability to pretend you weren’t getting a blowjob attractive, but he apparently did.)

Dream-Anders wrapped his lips around the head of Varric’s cock, sucking it into his mouth and bobbing his head slowly up and down.  Varric broke off in midsentence, reaching for his goblet of wine as though the pause had been intentional.  His face was slightly flushed as he set the goblet down and resumed his story, in which the dragon had been slain and Hawke was heading back to Kirkwall.

“—sun setting over the black cliffs—“

The more sedate pace involved fewer hand gestures, and he nonchalantly slid his right hand down to his lap, stroking back the hair at Anders’ temple and then cupping the side of his head, fondling Anders’ ear between his fingers.

(Anders pouted, not for the first time tonight, at that he couldn’t feel what was happening to his dream-self—he was a sucker for a good ear-fondling.  Almost as nice as having them nibbled...  _Wait, no, bad Anders_ , _you are not supposed to intentionally lust after your dear companions,_ scolded a little voice in the back of his head.)

( _They started it,_ he told it firmly.)

There wasn’t really any arguing with that, as his dream-self released Varric’s cock with a quiet pop to kiss down the shaft and lap at his balls, gently sucking the loose skin of Varric’s scrotum between his lips.

Fenris stood up and walked toward the head of the table to refill his goblet—Anders, holding his breath with an apprehension that was completely unreasonable considering he wasn’t actually involved, wondered if Varric had a thing for getting caught.  Leaving all the beverages up at his end of the table was a decent way to ensure no one sat too close—until someone didn’t want to interrupt the story to ask for a pass of the bottle.  The elf paused just short of Isabela—a step away from being able to see everything—…and she leaned forward to grab the winebottle and pass it to him.  He refilled his glass—and then leaned forward to refill hers—took a half-step forward to reach a clear spot on the table—and then set the bottle down and returned to his seat.

Apparently Varric just liked _dramatic tension_.  In more ways than Anders had realized.

“—at least forty bandits, leaping down from the rooftops like birds of prey—“

(Story-Hawke was evidently back in the city.)

His dream-self was increasing the pace, laving Varric’s cock with his tongue and sucking it into his mouth with an enthusiasm that probably would have been noisier were this actually happening.  The hand cupping his face let go, and Varric tapped his cheek lightly to catch his attention before pointing downwards.  Dream-Anders let go of Varric’s thighs to reach under his robes and unbutton his own pants, fist sliding up and down the flushed length of his cock as he stroked himself. 

(Did getting turned on by watching a copy of yourself wank count as narcissism, voyeurism, or some kind of meta-masturbation?)

“—Lowtown streets were once again safe…relatively speaking of course…and—”

The story was winding down, his dream-self caressing Varric’s balls with his free hand as he slid his head down until his nose brushed Varric’s pubes.  His other hand was still busy between his legs, trying to race the story to its conclusion. 

“—rest until— _nn—_ the next batch of trouble rolled in.  Which would, as always, be sooner rather—”

Varric’s voice broke for just a moment, hand clenching on the arm of his chair as he spurted down Dream-Anders’ throat.  He finished without further incident, voice cheerful and robust as Anders’ dream-self jerked himself off furiously, coming over the inside of his robe with a choked gasp, a bit of pearly fluid trickling out of the corner of his mouth.

He wiped his mouth, tucked himself in and straightened his robes, creeping down the length of the table and popping out in an empty seat at the end before the rest of those present had turned away from Varric—who was tucking his sundered smalls into his trousers and buttoning up, tugging his tunic down to hide the bulge from his not-yet-softened cock. 

“Diamondback, anyone?” he asked, standing up to grab the deck from the shelf and then starting to deal without waiting for a response.  He met dream-Anders’ eyes with a smirk and a wink as everyone else picked up their hands.

And then they started…playing Diamondback.  The scene began to fade halfway through the second hand, which was longer than Anders could have kept a Diamondback game straight in his head for.  (Maybe that explained why he lost so often, if Varric could.)  Shaking his head in befuddled, aroused amusement, he stepped through the wall and into the mist beyond.


	6. Merrill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some light blink-and-you-miss-it knifeplay.

He stepped through the haze into…his own clinic, oddly enough.  The cots were empty, his normal assistants absent, and a small elf was kneeling in the corner rummaging through his bookshelf, several tomes open on the floor around her.

Merrill.

She seemed to be having trouble finding what she was looking for, flipping quickly through the book in front of her before shaking her head with a frustrated little sigh, grabbing another one off the shelf.  She raised her head to glance anxiously around the room every so often, clearly worried she’d be caught doing something she shouldn’t.

(Was Merrill the sex dream type?  He did have a bit of a streak going, but she always seemed so…innocent.  In a really-fascinated-by-sex sort of way.)

The latest book apparently didn’t have what she was looking for either, as she muttered some Elvhen cursewords and clapped it shut.  (For a dead language, Elvhen had a surprisingly wide range of surviving profanity.  Perhaps Dalish mothers were too tickled to scold you for cussing if you did it in the mothertongue.)  She grabbed another one off the shelf and cracked it open, lips moving slightly as she read.

She was in his clinic, which was decidedly suspicious…but really now, the odds of _five_ people having sex dreams about him in one night were impossibly slim.  (And he should feel like a horrible person for the vague hopeful feeling in the back of his mind.  And in his pants.)

She dropped the book with a gasp, grabbing it and shoving it back on the shelf as though that would help her look innocent with five more open on the floor around her.  He followed her gaze across the room and saw himself, leaning against the doorway, eyebrows raised.

“Funny, meeting you here,” he said slowly, surveying the jumble she’d made of his bookshelf.  “And here I thought those were mine.  Silly me.”

“I was going to put them back!” she cried abruptly, closing the nearest tome and sliding it into a random gap on the shelf.  “I was just…looking.”

His mouth twisted skeptically.  “I don’t have any books on blood magic, you know.”

“I wasn’t—!  I mean, yes, I was looking for spells, but not… _that_ kind.”

“Oh?” He pushed off the wall and walked closer, giving her an arch look.  “And what kind of spells were you looking for, then?”

A flush crept across her cheeks.  “I—fine.  I heard Isabela talking, and I thought you might have…um…dirty spells.”

He laughed.  “Dirty spells?” he repeated.

“Yes!  You know, to make things…um…more exciting.”  She wrung her hands together restlessly.  “Not that I have anyone to make things exciting _with_ currently, but I wanted to be…uh…prepared.  And it’s sort of, you know, nice to think about them—and depending on how they work, I thought maybe they could…um… make things…exciting while I’m thinking about it?”

He shook his head with a grin.  “Merrill,” he said, “reading sex spells in a book isn’t going to help you much.  If you’re interested, the best way to learn that kind of spell—” he snapped, a spark crackling between his fingers “—is hands-on.”

Her face lit up.  “Would you really?  That’s so sweet of you, Anders.” 

( _Sweet_ wasn’t quite the word he would have used.)

She stood up, looking at him expectantly.  “So did you mean…the naked kind of hands-on?  Or the regular kind?”

Dream-Anders took a step closer, crossing the boundary into her personal space and staring down into her eyes with an enigmatic smirk.  “Which kind would you like?”

“You must have had something in mind, didn’t you?” She looked up at him quizzically.  “Or does that mean you meant the naked kind and you don’t want to make things awkward if I didn’t?  Because they wouldn’t be.  Awkward, I mean.”  She flushed.  “Or I suppose I’m making it awkward now aren’t I?  I just meant—”

He pulled her forward by the waist, pressing her against him and tilting her head back to crush their mouths together.  She made a pleased, surprised noise, grabbing the back of his head and sinking her fingers into his hair.

“That?” he asked, pulling away. She nodded breathlessly before rising back up on her tiptoes to meet him.

Anders watched himself lift her up—her legs wrapping around his waist, small hands burrowing into gaps in his clothing and tugging at straps and buckles—and set her on the nearest cot, shrugging out of his loosened coat and tossing it over a nearby chair.   Her hands darted up to untie her neckscarf and belt, tugging off her leather vambraces and greaves before pulling the green tunic she wore over her head.

(And _holy Maker_ her chainmail was crotchless.  It made _sense_ —it had a hole for every other major joint, and she was wearing panties underneath, but he’d always sort of assumed Isabela was the only one in their little group with nothing more than a flap of cloth shielding their knickers from view.)

(…He was going to think about this next time he looked at her, wasn’t he.  Fuck it all.  Though be fair, he was going to be having a _lot_ of interesting thoughts in the coming days.)

She undid the fastenings holding her chainmail closed up the front, wriggling out of it and letting it fall in a pile on the floor.  “So,” she said eagerly, sitting back in nothing but her slip.

He sat down next to her in his trousers, and raised a hand glowing with bluish light to her collarbone.  “This one is basic,” he said, the light blossoming and wrapping around her torso, down her arms.  “Raw magical energy.  Makes an interesting teaser.”

It swirled around her, and Anders recalled the feeling—feather-light caresses and a faint, tingling warmth.  Most apprentices figured that one out shortly after puberty, so he wasn’t surprised she knew of it.  (Funny how dreams worked—his dream-self couldn’t teach her anything she couldn’t think up on her own. He wouldn’t be surprised if the trouble wasn’t that she couldn’t think of dirty spells, but that she couldn’t cast them.  Blood magic would have gotten her used to amplified spellpower, which was _not_ what you wanted when trying to tune down a combat spell for more intimate uses.)

She made a pleased little _mm,_ tilting her head back to lean against his chest as he pulled her against him and nibbled her ear with his lips.  “Your turn,” he breathed, and she wrapped her fingers around his forearm, letting the spell flow up his arm and around his upper body.  He raised his own hand, tiny motes of frost swirling around his fingers, and trailed it down from her collarbone to cup her breast through the cloth of her slip.

“Not bad,” he whispered in her ear.  “How about this one?  Just a dampened cold spell.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed.  “So _that’s_ how you do it.  I tried, and it was…cold.  _Too_ cold, I mean.”  Frost misted from her fingers as she reached behind her to trail two fingers down his chest, brushing over his nipple and down to his stomach.

Dream-Anders dispelled the cold from his hand, hooking his thumb in the fabric of her teddy and tugging it down to free her perky breasts.  He cupped them in both hands and kneaded gently, lips tracing along her ear and down her neck.  She grabbed the dangling cloth and pulled it down further, leaving it hanging around her hips, unable to remove the panty portion as she was still seated.  His hands charted the slight curve of her sides, following her hips before lifting her up so she could wiggle the rest of the way out of her one-piece.  He slipped out from behind her and stood, unlacing his trousers and stepping out of them before pressing her down on the bed by her shoulders and kneeling between her legs.

“This next one doesn’t do much for most men,” he said, “but women seem extremely fond of it.”  He twisted his fingers and a faint distortion hovered in the air above his hand, a round ball of force that hummed faintly.

(Wait.  Had she actually found the sex notes in his grimoire at some point?  That was a little too familiar.  It would confirm his theory that her problem was with the casting and not the ideas, though—while his dream-self was implausibly imparting the knowledge by merely showing her the spell, Anders had practiced his sex-spells on fruit pilfered from the Circle kitchens until he could cast without leaving a mark.  Her way _was_ a lot sexier than shooting lightening at a peach every night for a month, he’d give her that.)

He guided his hand down between her legs, not actually touching her but letting the ball of force brush up against her clit.  She arched up off the cot with a gasp, which trailed into a thin, keening moan.  He left his hand in place as he bent down to kiss along her collarbone and suck at her nipples. 

(She’d probably appreciate it if he actually taught her this one.  It wouldn’t require this sort of demonstration, just some friendly advice about getting her hands on some eggs and practicing until she didn’t break them.   …Though she’d probably wonder why he thought to suddenly tell her that, wouldn’t she.)

She came with a wail, pushing against his hand and clenching her own into fists.  She hooked her ankles around his waist, pulling him down until the head of his cock brushed against her mound.

“Yeah?” he breathed, smirking down at her.  “You want it inside you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she gasped, pushing up against him.

Anders watched his dream-self grab her by the hips and tilt her pelvis upward, the head of his cock straining for a moment at her dripping entrance before popping inside.  He pressed forward, the rest of his shaft disappearing inside her in slow inches as she gasped raggedly, clawing at his back and shoulders. 

(How many times would he theoretically need to watch himself having dream-sex with one of his extremely attractive companions before it stopped flooring him every time?  It was apparently more than five.)

“Now then,” he murmured roughly, withdrawing a few gleaming inches before thrusting back inside, “ _this_ is probably the one you heard about from Isabela.”  Sparks burst from his hands on her hips, jumping across her skin in little crackles. 

( _That’s not quite what it looks like_ , Anders thought for a moment, before returning his attention to more important matters.) 

“ _Mmnn!_ ”  She pulled him down to kiss him, as he slid into her body in long, deep strokes.  The sparks flickered across her skin, and her hands on his back exploded with the same. 

He gasped harshly, holding his own spell for a moment longer before breaking it.  Her sparks flitted across his back as he thrust forward, crackling over the wet sounds of their coupling. 

“Very good,” he said, grinning.  “Now, one last one—not one you’ll be able to cast, though.”

He pulled a tiny dagger out of nowhere, flipping it into the palm of his hand and bringing it down against the skin just above the delicate swell of her breasts.

(Anders was _quite_ sure he didn’t have any sex spells that involved knives.)

His dream-self drew the knife across Merrill’s skin, cutting shallowly, only the smallest beads of red welling up before he followed it with a line of healing magic an inch behind.  She groaned, scarlet fingernails leaving trails down his back as he traced the curve of her breast with metal and blue light. 

(Yeah, she definitely made that one up herself.  Must be a blood mage thing.)

Dream-Anders tossed the knife over to a nearby cot, grabbing her hips with one hand and re-conjuring the ball of force with the other, letting it hover between her legs as he pounded into her lithe body.  She screamed, clinging tightly to his back and showering his torso in sparks, throwing her head back and biting her lip with a moan as she came.  He thrust home a few more times between her trembling thighs before pulling out and coming wetly over her abdomen, electricity still crackling across his skin.

Merrill stretched out on the cot, moaning contentedly, as his dream-self grabbed a cloth dangling from the edge of the cot and wiped off her belly.  After a minute she swung her legs over the edge of the cot and stepped into her discarded smalls, pulling them up her legs and over her hips.  She paused with the one-piece halfway up her torso, suddenly perking up and looking across the room. 

“Ah!”  She waved.  “Hi Anders!”

Anders winced.  _Well this is awkward._ “…Hi Merrill.” He stood up from his position against the wall.  “…Having fun?” he added after a moment.

She nodded vigorously, grinning.  “Are you?”

“Let’s just say it’s been an interesting night,” he said.  “Uh, look, I’m—”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, cutting him off. “I’m sorry for looking at your grimoire!”

“Forget about it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.  “I can, uh, send you some extra notes if you want them.”

She clapped her hands together happily.  “That’s so _s_ weet of you!”

_Sweet.  Right._ _That’s me._

“No problem,” he said.  “I’ll—see you later then.”  He turned and walked off into the mist, turning at the last minute to call over his shoulder.  “ _And for future reference, I don’t cast any spells involving knives!_ ”

She yelled something after him that sounded a bit like " _Elemental weapons!_ "—but he was already falling into another dream.


	7. Sebastian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if this chapter is a bit too campy for anyone. I really could not resist.

The room he stepped into was jolting, after his clinic—sunshine and cream-colored silks, a noble’s dressing room edged in crimson velvet.  A delicate perfume hovered in the air, plush cushions on every surface.

Sebastian was sitting in a high-backed chair, unpadded and made of a dark wood at odds with the rest of the room, darning socks. 

 _Is this some kind of metaphor?_ Anders wondered.  A house this fancy would surely have servants to do the mending.  And Sebastian, out of his gleaming armor for once, was dressed in clothes of nobleman’s quality, but a commoner’s design.

A low chuckle drifted over the back of the chaise longue Sebastian was facing, and Anders stepped around to view the front.

No, apparently it was another sex dream.  About him.  Again.  (He’d say it was getting old, but that would be a blatant lie.)

He was reclining back against the cushions, posture open and inviting, hair loose around his face, barefooted in those suede pants he was beginning to suspect were the catalyst for all this.  (Perhaps he’d been a little hard on them, if so.)  Rather than the open-chested cotton shirt he’d been wearing all evening, however, his torso was clad in a filmy, diaphanous red frippery like those favored by brothel-girls when they roleplayed Tevinter bed-slaves.  

There was absolutely no way this was not a sex dream.  He hadn’t known Sebastian had it in him.

“That doesn’t look very comfortable,” Dream-Anders said with a coy smirk, blatantly eyeing Sebastian up and down. 

“Taking pleasure in simple chores brings us closer to the Maker,” Sebastian said calmly, needle bobbing up and down.

“There can hardly be harm in sitting somewhere _soft_ while you do it, can there?”  He patted the open space next to him on the wide chaise longue.

Sebastian frowned bemusedly.  “I…suppose not,” he said after a moment, standing up and gathering his supplies to sit in the spot Anders had indicated.

Dream-Anders lay back and watched him for a minute, toying with the draping gauzy sleeve of his top.  “You know…” he said eventually, tracing his fingers down Sebastian’s arm, “there are much more interesting things you could be… _taking pleasure_ in.”

Sebastian started, his face reddening.  “ _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,”_ he muttered to himself, eyes clenched. 

Dream-Anders pouted.  “Come now, that’s hardly a fair description, is it?  I just want to help you relax.  You seem so _tense_.”  He ran a finger along Sebastian’s thigh.  “It’s not surprising, after so long without any… _relief_.  You’ve held out for long enough, don’t you think?” 

(Anders squinted carefully at his dream-self to make sure it wasn’t a cloaked desire demon.  He’d never heard lines that bad from anything else.)

“I can’t—,” Sebastian said desperately, dropping the half-darned sock on the floor with a clunk and turning to face Anders. 

“I think you’ll find that you can.  Quite easily, in fact,” his dream-self purred.  “And besides, I didn’t suggest anything specific, did I?  You’re allowed innocent touching, so there must be a _line_ somewhere.”  He smirked, taking Sebastian’s hand and guiding it to the crook of his neck.  “Not everything we could do for each other has to cross it.”

Sebastian gulped, staring at his hand against Anders’ neck with a nervous hunger.  “I—” He cleared his throat.  “I really shouldn’t…” he said, voice lacking conviction, even as his thumb stroked Anders’ throat as if of its own accord.

A slow smile crept across Dream-Anders’ lips, corners twisted with wicked promises.  “Who could it hurt?”

Sebastian opened his mouth as if to reply and then silently shut it, eyes fixed on his fingers as they traced the plunging neckline of Anders’ brothel-girl top. 

“See?  You want this.  I want this.” He chuckled.  “The only injured parties here are your _socks_ , and I’m sure they can wait another night to be mended.”

Sebastian didn’t say anything, hesitation warring with lust on his face, still enthralled by the sight of his hand on Anders’ chest as the tips of his fingers dipped under the sheer fabric of the blouse.

 Anders watched his dream-self lean closer, placing a hand on Sebastian’s cheek as he whispered, “You’ve devoted yourself to others for so long—who could fault you for taking one, harmless thing for yourself?”

(Anders felt like a horrible person for finding this a little bit funny.  Sebastian appeared to be having some sort of…inner moral crisis.  An inner moral crisis that read like a scene from one of Isabela’s novels.)

The uncertainty on Sebastian’s face was still there but fading, as he slid his hand further under the fabric to graze Anders’ nipple.  Emboldened, he reached up with his other hand to undo the clasps holding the blouse together in front, running his hands slowly over Anders’ chest to push the garment open.

(Without the purple prose, it was downright sexy.)

He stroked his palms down the lines of Anders’ sides, then back up so he could fondle the mage’s nipples with his thumbs.  He bit his lip, and after a moment’s hesitation he leaned down to lave Anders’ chest in open-mouthed kisses, lust dimming out the last hint of scruples on his face.

Anders’ dream-self seemed to take that as a cue, his hands going from passive at his sides to roaming wildly over Sebastian’s back in a matter of moments.  Sebastian knelt back and yanked his shirt off, tossing it behind him before leaning back down and going to work on undoing Anders’ pants. 

Dream-Anders shrugged out of the filmy blouse, which was at this point only barely on by the sleeves, and ran his hands down Sebastian’s bare chest, skimming over the waistband of his trousers.  Sebastian got the suede pants off with unrealistic ease, his broad hands squeezing Anders’ ass as he guided the mage’s hips up to peel them down.

He stood to shuck his own trousers and smalls, grabbing a small tub of ointment from the vanity.  He knelt back on the chaise longue between Anders’ thighs and twisted the lid off the container, digging his fingers into the greasy salve before wrapping them around Anders’ cock.  The mage moaned, low and sensual, loose hair brushing over his cheekbones as he tossed his head back.

(There was something about watching himself act like a prostitute that was a tiny bit creepy.  There was also something about watching straight-laced Sebastian succumb to desire that was _hot as fuck_.)

Sebastian watched him with a slight smirk, giving his own cock a quick stroke with his greased palm before kneeling between Anders' legs.  He canted his hips forward and slid his prick against Anders’, a desperate groan echoing in his throat at the first touch of flesh on flesh. 

(Wherever the aforementioned “line” was, Anders was pretty sure it had been crossed by this point.)

Sebastian held onto dream-Anders’ hips, grinding his swollen cock against the mage, who bit his lip and closed his eyes in apparent ecstasy.  A steady stream of low moans and soft gasps fell from Sebastian’s lips over the wet sound of their pricks sliding together. 

“You’re beautiful,” he moaned, staring down at Anders’ flushed cheeks and bite-reddened lips.  “Were it not for my vows, I would take you right here.”  He backed up and guided Anders around and to all fours, pressing his cock between the cheeks of the mage’s ass to demonstrate his point.  “Just like this.  I would thrust inside you and take my pleasure inside your body, fill you with my seed and leave you stretched and dripping with it.”

(This was sounding more and more like one of Isabela’s books, in the best way.  The brogue on that rogue was to die for.  …Or at least to wank for; there was a lingering part of Anders that still liked to avoid death whenever possible.)

Sebastian reached for the salve, greasing his cock until it was wet and gleaming.  He wiped his hand off on the inside of Anders’ thighs, guiding the mage to press his legs tightly together, and butted the head of his cock up against the oiled seam of Anders’ thighs.

“ _This_ , however, is as close as I can get.”  He thrust forward, shaft parting the mage’s thighs, the reddened tip of his cock poking out on the other side just under Anders’ balls. 

(Exactly what vows had Sebastian taken?  “I shall not insert my cock into any orifice”?)

Sebastian pumped his hips, cock sliding long and wet and obscene between Anders’ legs.  He was moaning louder than before, head tilted back in pleasure, a man too far gone with lust to notice he was waking the rest of the household. 

Anders watched his dream-self push back against Sebastian, fingers scrambling at the padded fabric, hair falling into his eyes and brushing against his flushed cheekbones.  He grabbed at a large cushion for balance and rested his forehead against his forearm, still biting his lip with closed eyes as he reached underneath himself and began to stroke himself off. 

Sebastian thrust slowly but powerfully between his thighs, clearly savoring the moment, bracing himself with one hand as he pet Anders’ lower back and rear with the other. 

(Anders upped his estimate of how many times he’d have to wank upon waking up from three to four.)

His dream-self came over the cushions with a cry, Sebastian abandoning his leisurely pace in favor of frenzied thrusting, his hands on Anders’ thighs pressing them even more tightly together.  He came with a shout, a few spurts hitting the mage’s balls and stomach and the rest falling on the fabric below. 

He sat back with a sigh, looking guiltily at his half-darned sock on the floor before returning his gaze to dream-Anders lying flushed and debauched before him, lips curled in a triumphant smirk. 

“Maker forgive me,” he whispered, burying his head in his hands.

( _Sure, make me out to be the bad guy here, why don’t you,_ Anders thought, mildly peeved.  As hot as this had been, watching Sebastian guilt-trip over his own dreams sounded much less hot, so he turned and walked through the walls into the mist.)


	8. Aveline

He emerged inside a familiar-looking cave, clearly somewhere along the Wounded Coast. He didn’t quite recognize the interior, but it seemed like an amalgamation of two or three caves he was familiar with, and the smell and feel of the air were immediately recognizable.  
  
Armor was clanking in the distance and he tensed out of habit, spinning around with a spell ready before he remembered where he was. Namely a dream.  
  
Aveline’s dream, from the looks of things, as she stepped into the cavern with a couple generic guardsmen at her back.  
  
“We know you’re here!” she called out, drawing her sword and scanning the room. A muffled curse was heard from behind a large rock outcropping, and a handful of raiders stepped into the open, shooting arrows at her and her men.  
  
(This was looking like the end of his streak, then. They’d stepped into the Keep briefly that afternoon to report their assorted do-gooding, and Aveline’s only reaction to his unusual outfit had been an ill-concealed snicker.)  
  
He was distracted enough by the rather one-sided battle that he almost missed it when a man in robes stepped out onto a small stone balcony across the room, trapping Aveline’s two lackeys in pillars of light with a wave of his arm.  
  
Huh. Mass paralysis was usually a little beyond the skills of the sort of apostate a two-bit group of thugs like this could manage to hire—oh, wait, that was him again.  
  
Aveline screamed in fury, taking down the last raider with a well-placed shield to the head before charging toward the rickety staircase leading up to his mercenary-apostate self. She barely made it halfway before he threw her back against the opposite wall with a wave of force, pinning her against the flat rock face with her feet dangling a yard off the ground. Her sword and shield clattered uselessly to the ground, the air quivering around her as she tried to pull herself free.  
  
“Rather rude of you to just barge in uninvited, don’t you think?” his dream-self called out, stepping slowly down the stairs with the smug, casual air of one who is confident they’ve won.  
  
“Void take you,” she spat out, still trying to break free of the shimmering barrier of force pinioning her to the wall.  
  
“And the rudeness continues.” He shook his head. “You have quite a reputation, you know,” he said offhandedly. “They say _Captain Aveline_ brings in more apostates than some of the Templars.”  
  
“I’m giving them another chance,” she said firmly, eyes still blazing at her confinement. “Would you rather I killed them? My men don’t have the resources the Templars do; I’ve lost two good guards in the last six months to apostates who decided to act up between arrest and the Gallows. And I _still_ give the order to try to bring them in.”  
  
“I’d _rather_ you let them go,” Dream-Anders said tightly, frowning. “Surely you’ve heard of the atrocities committed in the Gallows—you’re consigning some of them to a fate _worse_ than death.”  
  
“I operate under scrutiny. How long do you think ‘letting them go’ would last?” she called down. “One apostate? Two? Maybe even three, before they strip me of my position and put someone less merciful in charge.”  
  
Anders blinked. That was… _not_ the argument he would have expected Aveline to make. And unlike the arguments he’d been expecting, he didn’t really have an answer for it.

“Excuses,” his dream-self sneered, bringing up one hand awash with purplish light. “Maybe you just need a taste of what _helplessness_ feels like to make you more sympathetic to our cause.” He shot the light towards her and she cried out, her torso bucking, her head almost banging against the stone behind her.  
  
 _Fuck_. Aveline thought he was the type of person who’d torture people with magic? That was…uncomfortable.  
  
His dream-self recalled the light to his hand with a smirk, raising his eyebrows at her.  
  
“ _Coward_ ,” she hissed.  
  
He shrugged, calling the light to his left hand as well before he thrust his arms before him and sent it crashing into her like a wave.  
  
She writhed in her bonds, clenching her eyes shut with a load groan. Or was it a moan? Cheeks flushed, hips thrusting forward—she looked more like someone in the throes of intense pleasure than terrible pain.  
  
(Okay, it was still hard to tell, but intense pleasure would seem to fit better with his night so far.)  
  
The light intensified and the moan turned into a wail, skin flushing down to her neck, her armored thighs quivering.  
  
(Anders had never come up with a sex spell that consisted of pure orgasmic ecstasy, but if he had one he imagined it would look something like this. Evidence was pointing firmly towards pleasure.)  
  
Dream-Anders _tsk_ ed. “You’d better get out of that armor, unless you want it to smell like sex for a week.” He brought one hand back, keeping up the purple light with the other, and her armor fell off piece by piece as if of its own accord, unfastened by force magic.  
  
(Her imagining of his magical prowess was…embarrassingly flattering. Force-magic controlled enough to undo a buckle, orgasms at the wave of a hand…and never-ending paralysis spells, Anders realized, glancing over at her still-trapped guardsmen.)  
  
(And Andraste’s ass, Aveline was fucking _sculpted_.)  
  
His dream-self resumed the spell with both hands and she screamed, slick trickling down her muscled thighs.  
  
“You’re lucky your men can’t hear or see past that spell,” he said with a laugh. “What would they think if they could see their captain like this?”  
  
She glared at him, her freckled chest heaving as she thrashed in her confines. The air wavered as she wrenched one arm free and then the other, the bonds over her legs snapping in bursts of force as she pushed off from the wall, leaping over the pile of discarded metal on the ground below her.  
  
“They’d think,” she snarled, stalking towards him, “that you’re in a _lot_ of trouble, mage.”

Aveline grabbed his collar, shrugging off the paralysis spell he tried to cast at her without so much as a pause, her eyes burning with fury— _or maybe lust_ , Anders amended, as she tore open his dream-self’s threadbare robes, several buttons popping off and plinking to the ground.  
  
“Two can play this game,” she growled, shoving him to the floor, strands of her hair falling out of their tie. He gaped up at her, robes open and smalls tented, making no attempt to cast another spell. She straddled his thighs to pin him there, hard muscle and soft curves—pale scars over the heavy swell of her breasts, her biceps bulging beneath creamy freckled skin as she yanked his smalls down over his hips. His cock bobbed free against his stomach as she leaned forward and pinned his hands to the ground, her damp orange curls hovering inches above his straining cock.  
  
“I’ll show you _helpless_ ,” she hissed, pressing her hips down to nestle his cock between her soaked labia. Taut muscle flexed in her thighs as she slid back and forth, grinding her clit against his prick.  
  
“The wrath of the Guard-Captain is— _ah!_ —terrible indeed,” he gasped, hips bucking up against her. She smiled dangerously, hooking her ankles back over his thighs to restrict his movement. His cock, pressed between his abdomen and her crotch, shone with her slick as she worked herself against it, holding him prone on the ground.  
  
(His mind should really cease to be blown by his companions having sex-dreams about him at this point in the night. But… _Aveline_. For some reason that was even more shocking than chaste-and-ostensibly-straight Sebastian.)  
  
“I’m—” he groaned, and she stopped abruptly, raising her eyebrows at him. “Right,” he said. “Ladies first.”  
  
She snorted, shaking her head even as she picked back up, wet noises and thin gasps echoing in the cavern. (Very fortunate that his dream-paralysis spell apparently had a magical deafening component, Anders thought, glancing over at her trapped men. Their view to his dream-self’s corner of the cave would have been blocked by the outcropping either way, but the proceedings were still quite audible.)  
  
Aveline moaned, pressing down hard, eyes clenched shut and a stray wisp of hair clinging to her forehead. As soon as her legs stopped trembling she stood up, leaving his cock hard and gleaming, and walked casually over to the wall to start donning her clothes and armor.  
  
“Wrath of the guard,” she called over her shoulder.  
  
Dream-Anders cursed, sitting up and reaching down to jerk himself off. He came over the cavern floor just as she finished dressing, and Anders saw her smirk with her back still to his dream-self.

She stepped between her paralyzed men and grabbed one of the cleaner dead raiders, unstrapping his armor and tossing it towards the mage.  
  
He blinked. “What are you doing?”  
  
“I would think you’d realize, seeing as you were so vehemently recommending it to me not long ago,” she said flatly, dragging the corpse over and holding out her hand. “Robe.”  
  
He complied, grabbing the leather cuirass and frowning at it curiously. “I don’t think I’m dexterous enough to wear this,” he muttered, staring at the straps.  
  
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she replied, shoving the raider’s arms into the robe and fastening the remaining buttons. He did eventually manage, grimacing at the extra weight as he flexed his limbs.  
  
“Well then. It’s been lovely, but I think I’ll just, uh, leave, before you change your mind.” He turned and headed for the path out of the cavern, wincing as she called after him.  
  
“Not yet you don’t. Not without lifting the spell on my men,” she said harshly. “And if you _ever_ cause trouble again, I’m putting you away for good.”  
  
“Understood.” He tossed her a sardonic salute and backed up a few more steps before waving his hand at her paralyzed men, sprinting towards the exit as the light began to fade. He was gone by the time they came to, looking over at their captain and the robed raider corpse with satisfied nods.  
  
( _That_ was unexpected. Presumably it was some kind of dream subconscious he’s-actually-Anders thing, because Anders could not see Aveline letting someone go based on their stellar character display of pinning her to a wall and fucking her with magic. Or maybe he _really_ didn’t know her as well as he thought he did.)  
  
On that interesting note, he turned and stepped into the haze beyond the cave walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY FOR THE TERRIBLE META GAMEPLAY JOKE I CAN NEVER RESIST THEM.


	9. Carver

His first impression was pale stone and steel armor emblazoned with the Sword of Mercy and _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ oh wait still a dream.  
  
He was in a…Templar armory. In the Gallows, judging from the color of the stone. While the back of his mind was still screaming in agitation, the faint wispiness around the edges of the scene made it passably obvious that he was still safe in the Fade. Rows of Templar armor notwithstanding.   
  
Half of the room appeared to be devoted to maintenance, with the…whetstones and the cloths and the jars of oil and wax. (Anders had never paid much attention to the process beyond “wow that looks bothersome,” but he recognized the materials.) A lone young man was seated at a bench next to a table, sharpening a greatsword, freshly-polished recruit armor in a pile beside him.  
  
 _But I didn’t even run into Carver yesterday!_ was his first, ridiculous thought.  
  
 _Not everything has to be a sex dream about you, Anders_ , was his second.  
  
And yet there he was, strolling in like he owned the place.  
  
Carver looked up, dropping the whetstone, hand tightening on the grip of his sword. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, frowning.  
  
Dream-Anders chuckled mockingly. “That makes two of us,” he said.  
  
Carver’s frown deepened. “I’m a _member_ of the _Order_ ,” he gritted out. “Which, may I remind you, makes it my _responsibility_ to bring in apostates like you.”  
  
His dream-self laughed softly. “You couldn’t touch me, _boy_.”   
  
“Try me,” Carver said, low and hard.  
  
Dream-Anders didn’t pay him any heed, instead glancing around the room, hands in his pockets. “So? How is it, licking Meredith’s boots and oppressing the innocent in the hopes you’ll finally earn some scrap of recognition? Does it make you feel like a big man?”  
  
(Even Carver’s subconscious liked to guilt-trip him over his life choices? No wonder he was always so pissy.)  
  
“I’m bigger than _you_ , magey, so watch your tongue” Carver said, standing up to his full height, his sword still in hand, biceps flexing menacingly. “And I’m doing good work here.”  
  
“Good work?” Dream-Anders snorted. “You call dragging apostates in kicking and screaming _good work_? I thought you were raised better than that.”  
  
Carver looked oddly stricken. “I—”  
  
“Or has that chip on your shoulder replaced your conscience?” Anders continued.   
  
Carver’s face hardened again. “I don’t expect _you_ of all people to understand.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Poor you, held back your whole life by covering for apostates, never get to be the center of attention, Daddy never loved you because you didn’t have magic, yadda yadda yadda.” He scoffed. “Get over yourself. Your life has been a walk through a daisy field compared to some of us.”   
  
“Shove it.” Carver raised his sword. “You mages always think you have it worse than anyone else.”  
  
“And still with the blind arrogance.” Anders shook his head, stepping closer with his arms crossed, his voice light and dangerous. “I think someone needs to put you in your place.”

“And you’re the one to do it?” Carver asked derisively, his tense posture belying his tone, a nervous flush high on his cheeks. He jabbed the tip of his sword in the mage’s direction. “Don’t make me laugh.”  
  
“Put that away.”  
  
Carver’s eyes narrowed. “ _Make me_.”  
  
That was apparently what his dream-self had been waiting for. He gestured, the metal glowing a dull red all the way down the hilt. Carver dropped the sword with a shout, yanking off the now-singed leather glove he’d been wearing to sharpen the blade and inspecting his hand for a burn. Anders sent the sword skittering across the floor with a wave of force magic, a pair of glowing cuffs materializing around Carver’s wrists and snapping together like magnets.  
  
Carver glowered at the restraints and muttered something—they flickered, but didn’t vanish.   
  
Dream-Anders laughed. “Wishing you’d been a little more willing to take lyrium, _recruit_?”  
  
(The lad was apparently brighter than he would’ve given him credit for, if he was holding off on lyrium despite the pressures of the Order. Also: totally another sex dream. Anders was _calling it_.)  
  
“Piss off,” Carver muttered.   
  
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s an excellent decision. Just, you know, not in this particular—”  
  
“Fucking shit-eared nug-licking—”  
  
His dream-self clucked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Really, Carver, language.”   
  
“Shut up, _Dad_.”  
  
“I think you’re the one who needs to learn to hold your tongue.” Dream-Anders waved his hand, sending Carver staggering towards the table behind him with a push of force magic. The manacles of light on his wrists snapped down against the wooden surface, leaving him hunched forward over the table with his back to the mage.  
  
“Now,” dream-Anders said, walking up behind him, “ _this_ is for being such an incorrigible brat.” He brought the flat of his hand down hard on Carver’s clothed ass.  
  
“You call that a strike?” Carver jeered, the tips of his ears bright red. “Come back when you’ve built up some arm strength.”  
  
“I suppose you won’t be needing the padding, then,” dream-Anders said calmly, jerking Carver’s trousers and smalls down to his ankles to bare his ass. One cheek was slightly flushed where he’d struck before, and he drew his arm back to smack the same spot, a fleshy _crack_ resounding in the room.   
  
“ _That’s_ for joining the Templars in a fit of pique without thinking things through,” he continued, bringing his arm back again. “You need at least a dozen more for that,” he added, slapping the other cheek for good measure. Carver made a little sound low in his throat at the fourth stroke, his upper body bowing forward until his forehead rested on his clenched fists. _Slap._ His ass was thrust out more in the new position, consciously or not, and the mage drew his arm back even further for the next stroke. _Slap_.   
  
_Slap._ The blush on Carver’s ears was creeping down onto his cheeks, his eyes clenched shut. _Smack._ He gasped against the table, knuckles white. _Slap._ His cock thickened slightly between his legs, flushed and heavy as it bobbed with each stroke. _Smack._ Carver groaned, his face bright red. _Slap_. His ass was flexing beautifully at the assault, muscle clenching under reddened skin. _Smack._ Carver gave a ragged gasp, his cock perking up further. _Slap._ Dream-Anders laid down four blows in quick succession, two to each cheek, and Carver fucking _whimpered_ , fully hard now, his face scrunched up and scarlet.   
  
(Anders upped his estimate yet again. He was definitely going to have to wank _five_ times upon waking up at this point.)   
  
“You’re hard,” his dream-self stated, amusement evident in his voice.   
  
“I—it’s not—” Carver protested, raising his head and staring at Anders desperately.  
  
“You liked that?”  
  
“I—” Carver looked away nervously. “You don’t—”  
  
“Understand? No, I think I understand perfectly,” his dream-self murmured, leaning close to Carver’s ear, voice low and heavy. “You’re a filthy boy, and you need to get fucked.”

Carver groaned, blushing to the back of his neck, his cock jumping at the words.   
  
“Is that what you want, Carver?” his dream-self asked, stroking the lad’s lower back almost fondly.  
  
“No!” Carver spat out, rather unconvincingly.  
  
Dream-Anders stepped back. “All right, I suppose I’ll be on my way then,” he said, raising a hand as if to dispel the cuffs.  
  
“No!” Carver exclaimed immediately.   
  
“No?”  
  
“I—don’t make me say it,” he grumbled, staring down at the table.  
  
(Anders would never have guessed that so many people expressed their repressed issues through sex dreams. He approved.)  
  
(...It was admittedly a _little_ disturbing that he was universally the best objectification of said issues. Maybe he was just the best compromise between “represents issues” and “fuckable.” Let’s go with that.)   
  
“I can’t read your mind, Carver,” his dream-self said with a slight smirk. “How am I supposed to know what you want unless you tell me?”  
  
“Augh, _fine_! Yes, all right? Yes.”   
  
“Yes what?” he asked, reaching for one of the jars of sword oil on the table.  
  
“Yes _please_ ,” Carver said in exasperation.  
  
Dream-Anders swatted his reddened ass. “Don’t use that tone with me, young man,” he said, unscrewing the jar and dipping his fingers in the oil.   
  
Carver bowed his head with a soft groan, adjusting his stance to spread his legs further apart, just slightly enough to be excused as unintentional. Anders’ clean hand smoothed over the curve of his ass to the small of his back, pushing the hem of Carver’s shirt up his muscled back as the oiled fingers of his other hand slid between Carver’s cheeks. He pressed his index finger inside without fanfare, Carver gasping against the table as he pushed his hips back almost imperceptibly. A bead of precome rolled down the head of his cock as he shifted his feet again, spreading his legs just a little wider.  
  
Two fingers and Carver abandoned the pretense of accidental movements, spacing his feet wide to give dream-Anders better access. He still kept his head tucked down, muffling his noises against his arm as the mage worked his fingers in and out of his ass—but he threw it back with a gasp as Anders reached forward with his free hand and fisted his cock, stroking him as he continued to thrust his fingers.  
  
“Now then,” he said, leaning forward to speak as close as he could to Carver’s ear, “I believe there was something you wanted?”

Carver moaned low in his throat, pushing against dream-Ander’s fingers. The mage didn’t wait for a further response—not that it looked like one was forthcoming—before pulling open the bottom flap of his robe and undoing his trousers, dipping his fingers in the jar of oil and fisting his cock. He set the jar back precariously on the edge of the table before wrapping a hand around the base of his cock and sliding the head along the seam of Carver’s ass.   
  
He lined up with Carver’s hole and pushed in just a couple inches before pulling back out, laughing softly at Carver’s desperate sound. He popped the head of his cock in and out a few more times, and Anders almost thought his dream-self was going to make the lad beg when he suddenly grabbed Carver’s hips and slammed forward, burying himself to his balls.   
  
The rhythm he set was savage, rocking Carver’s larger body forward against the table hard enough to rattle the supplies on it dangerously. The jar he’d set at the edge came crashing to the floor, oil running along the cracks in the flagstones as the table creaked above them.  
  
Carver groaned, bracing himself against the table. He grunted as dream-Anders’ hips slammed into his reddened ass particularly hard, his cock jerking at the sensation.   
  
“What would the Knight-Commander think if she could see you now, Carver? Bent over a table like a whore in the sacred halls of the Order, getting pounded within an inch of your life by a wanted apostate.” His dream-self laughed mockingly. “ _That_ would get you her attention, I’m sure.”  
  
“Fuck… you— _nn_ ” Carver gasped, even as he rocked back to meet Anders’ next thrust.   
  
“ _Language_ , Carver,” he chided, shoving in hard and making Carver curse for an entirely different reason.   
  
(It was a little weird, to hear himself saying such things. Anders was not normally in a position to remind people of their fathers. Although, as previously theorized, he probably was the best combination of ‘represents daddy issues’ + ‘represents mage issues’ + ‘bangable’ that Carver had available. Provided Carver found him bangable, which was really a moot question at this point.)   
  
“Touch me,” Carver pleaded, cock heavy and leaking between his legs. His dream-self wrapped a hand around to stroke him and he came almost immediately, shouting loud enough to bring half the Gallows running in were this not a dream.   
  
Dream-Anders pounded him without letting up, thrusting through his orgasm and for a minute longer, before pulling out to jerk himself off furiously, coming all over Carver’s lower back and ass and letting it drip down to his stretched hole.   
  
“That was fun,” his dream-self said casually, lip twisted in amusement as he fastened his trousers and straighted his robes. “We should do it again sometime.” He left Carver there, bent over the table and dripping come, only pausing halfway out the door to dispel the manacles almost as an afterthought.  
  
 _Holy fuck_ , Anders thought, for approximately the 30th time that night.


	10. End

Anders’ eyes snapped open, and he found himself staring at the ceiling of his clinic, his cock hard and straining against his nightclothes.  
  
 _Holy fuck._ He ran through the dream in his head, absently palming his erection through his smalls, confirming with himself that it had actually happened. (Err, not _happened_ , but...you know.) He concluded that yes, he _had_ in fact just witnessed the entirety of Hawke’s little group, past and present, having sex dreams about him. On the same night.  
  
 _What are the odds?_ he wondered, even as he shoved down his nightclothes and took himself in hand, replaying the night’s events in his head. He came three times before he finally got out of bed to clean up and get a drink of water—after which he went two more rounds with himself, because Grey Warden stamina and also _holy fuck._  
  
He grabbed last evening’s outfit (still his only one) from the sullen little heap on a chair where he’d tossed it, airing it out with a puff of somewhat-frivolous magic before pulling it on with much more cheer than yesterday.  
  
He stepped out into the main room and opened the door to light the lantern, only to find that his assistant had come early, with a full delivery of poultices—tucked into which was a note from Hawke about everyone meeting in Lowtown for unexplained (as always) purposes. (Presumably a few rounds of fetch-and-deliver. Maker knew Hawke couldn’t hand off a pair of pants without three other people there to watch. And _wow_ that had come out sounding dirty.)  
  
He left his assistant with the poultices to man the clinic, walking up to Lowtown with a bit of a strut in his step.  
  
The day seemed...full of possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I toyed with writing a longer ending to this, but I didn't want to make one pairing or threesome the "official" one and I wasn't really up for writing a 9-way. Rest assured, Anders is going to get with someone--but you can imagine that someone as whoever you'd like. =)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Late Nights and Impossible Odds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6611239) by [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess)




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